"burgess!"
"sir?"
berkley sat up in bed and viewed his environment with disgust.
"these new lodgings would make a fair kennel, wouldn't they,
burgess?—if a man isn't too particular about his dog."
the servant entered with a nasty smirk. "yes, sir; i seen a rat last night."
"he's not the only one, is he, burgess," yawned berkley. "oh, hell! i've got to dress. did you paint that bathtub? i guess you did, the place reeks like a paint shop. anyway, it kills less desirable aromas. where's the water?"
he swung his symmetrical body to the bed's edge, dropped lightly to the carpet, unloosed his night robe, and stretched himself.
"was i very drunk, burgess?"
"no, sir; you just went to sleep. you haven't got no headache, have you?"
"no—but it was only corn whisky. i didn't remember what i did with it. is there any left?"
"not much, sir."
the servant, ugly to the verge of deformity, and wearing invariably the abominable smirk that disgusted others but amused berkley, went about his duties.
berkley blinked at him reflectively, then bathed, dressed, and sat down to a bowl of chocolate and a bit of bread.
"what the devil was all that row this morning, burgess?"
"war, sir. the president has called for seventy-five thousand men. here it is, sir." and he laid a morning paper beside the cup of chocolate, which berkley studied between sips, commenting occasionally aloud:
"heavens, burgess, why, we're a race of patriots! now who on earth could have suspected that. . . . why, we seem to be heroes, too! what do you think of that, burgess? you're a hero; i'm a hero; everybody north of charleston is an embattled citizen or a hero! isn't it funny that nobody realised all this before?" . . . he turned the paper leisurely sipping his chocolate. . . . "of course—the 'dear old flag'! that's the cheese, isn't it, burgess? been insulted, hasn't it? and we're all going to charleston to punch that wicked beauregard in the nose. . . . burgess, you and i are neglecting our duty as heroes; there's much shouting to be done yet, much yelling in the streets, much arguing to be done, many, many cocktails to be firmly and uncompromisingly swallowed. are you prepared to face the serious consequences of being a hero?"
"yes, sir," said burgess.
"you merit well of the republic! the country needs you. here's half a dollar. do your duty unflinchingly—at the nearest bar!"
burgess took the coin with a smirk.
"mr. berkley, the landlady sent word that times is hard."
"bless her soul! they are hard, burgess. inform her of my sentiments," said berkley cordially. "now, my hat and cane, if you please. we're a wonderful people, burgess; we'll beat our walking-sticks into bayonets if mr. beauregard insists on saying boo to us too many times in succession. . . . and, burgess?"
"sir?"
"now that you have waked up this morning to find yourself a hero, i think you'd better find yourself another and more spectacular master. my heroism, for the future, is to be more or less inconspicuous; in fact, i begin the campaign by inserting my own studs and cleaning my own clothes, and keeping out of gaol; and the sooner i go where that kind of glory calls me the sooner my name will be emblazoned in the bright lexicon of youth where there's no such word as 'jail.'",
"sir?"
"in simpler and more archaic phrase, i can't afford you, burgess, unless i pilfer for a living."
"i don't eat much, sir."
"no, you don't eat much."
"i could quit drinking, sir."
"that is really touching, burgess. this alcohol pickled integument of yours covers a trusting heart. but it won't do. heroics in a hall bedroom cut no coupons, my poor friend. our paths to glory and the grave part just outside the door-sill yonder."
"she said i could stay, sir."
"which she?"
"the landlady. i'm to fetch coal and run errants and wait on table. but you'll get the best cuts, sir. and after hours i can see to your clothes and linen and boots and hats, and do your errants same like the usual."
"now this is nearly as pathetic as our best fiction," said berkley; "ruined master, faithful man—won't leave—starves slowly at his master's feet—tootle music very sneaky—'transformation! burgess in heaven, blinking, puzzled, stretching one wing, reflectively scratching his halo with right hind foot. angel chorus. burgess appears to enjoy it and lights one of my best cigars——"
"sir?" said burgess, very red.
berkley swung around, levelled his walking-stick, and indicated the pit of his servant's stomach:
"your face is talking now; wait till that begins to yell. it will take more than i'm earning to fill it."
he stood a moment, smiling, curious. then:
"you've been as faithless a valet as any servant who ever watered wine, lost a gimcrack, or hooked a weed. studs, neckcloths, bootjacks, silk socks, pins, underwear—all magically and eventually faded from my wardrobe, wafted to those silent bournes of swag that valets wot of. what in hell do you want to stay here for now, you amusing wastrel?"
"yes, sir. i'd prefer to stay with you."
"but there'll be no more pleasant pickings, my poor and faithless steward! if you should convert anything more to your own bank account i'll be obliged to stroll about naked."
"yes, sir," muttered burgess; "i brought back some things last night—them socks, shirt-pins and studs, and the fob. . . . yes, sir; i fetched 'em back, i did—" a sudden and curious gleam of pride crossed the smirk for an instant;—"i guess my gentleman ain't agoing to look no worse than the next fifth avenue swell he meets—even if he ain't et no devilled kidneys for breakfast and he don't dine on no canvas-back at delmonico's. no, sir."
berkley sat down on the bed's edge and laughed until he could scarcely see the man, who observed him in patient annoyance. and every time berkley looked at him he went into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, as he realised the one delightful weakness in this thorough-paced rogue—pride in the lustre cast upon himself by the immaculate appearance of a fashionable master. but after reflection, it did not astonish him too much; the besetting weakness of rogues is vanity in one form or another. this happened to be an unusual form.
"burgess," he said, "i don't care how you go to hell. go with me if you like or go it alone."
"thank you, sir."
"you're welcome," replied berkley gravely, and, tucking his cane up under one arm, he went out to business, drawing on a pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves.
later he searched his pockets for the cigar he had denied himself the evening before. it was not there. in fact, at that moment, burgess, in the boarding-house backyard, was promenading up and down, leering at the swedish scullion, and enjoying the last expensive cigar that his master was likely to purchase in many a day.
the street, and avenue were seething with people; people stood at their windows looking out at the news-boys who swarmed everywhere, shouting endless extras; people were gathering on corners, in squares, along park railings, under porticos of hotels, and every one of them had a newspaper and was reading.
in front of the st. nicholas hotel a lank and shabby man had mounted a cracker box, and was evidently making a speech, but berkley could distinguish nothing he said because of the wild cheering.
everywhere, threading the throng, hurried boys and men selling miniature flags, red-white-and-blue rosettes, and tricoloured cockades; and everybody was purchasing the national colours—the passing crowd had already become bright with badges; the union colours floated in streamers from the throats or sleeves of pretty girls, glinted in the lapels of dignified old gentlemen, decorated the hats of the stage-drivers and the blinders of their horses.
"certainly," said berkley, buying a badge and pinning it in his button-hole. "being a hero, i require the trade-mark. kindly permit that i offer a suggestion—" a number of people waiting to buy badges; were now listening to him—"those gentlemen gathered there in front of the new york hotel seem to be without these marks which distinguish heroes from citizens. no doubt they'll be delighted to avail themselves of your offered cockades."
a quick laugh broke out from those around, but there was an undertone of menace in it, because the undecorated gentlemen in front of the new york hotel were probably southerners, and secessionists in principles; that hostelry being the rendezvous in new york of everything southern.
so, having bestowed his mischievous advice, berkley strolled on down broadway, his destination being the offices of craig and son, city and country real estate, where he had a desk to himself, a client or two in prospect, and considerable leisure to study the street, gas, and sewer maps of new york city.
tiring of this distraction, he was always at liberty to twiddle his thumbs, twirl his pencil, yawn, blink, and look out of the window at the city park across the way, where excited citizens maintained a steady yelling monotone before the neighbouring newspaper offices all day long.
he was also free to reflect upon his own personal shortcomings, a speculation perhaps less damaging than the recent one he had indulged in; and he thought about it sometimes; and sometimes about ailsa paige, whom he had not again seen since the unaccountable madness had driven him to trample and destroy the first real inclination he had ever had for a woman.
this inclination he occasionally found leisure to analyse, but, not understanding it, never got very far, except that, superficially, it had been more or less physical. from the moment he saw her he was conscious that she was different; insensibly the exquisitely volatile charm of her enveloped him, and he betrayed it, awaking her, first, to uneasy self-consciousness; then uneasy consciousness of him; then, imperceptibly, through distrust, alarm, and a thousand inexplicable psychological emotions, to a wistful interest that faintly responded to his. ah! that response!—strange, childish, ignorant, restless—but still a response; and from obscure shallows unsuspected, uncomprehended—shallows that had never before warned her with the echo of an evanescent ripple.
for him to have reflected, reasoned, halted himself, had been useless from the beginning. the sister-in-law of this girl knew who and what he was and had been. there was no hope for him. to let himself drift; to evoke in her, sometimes by hazard, at times with intent, the delicate response—faint echo—pale shadow of the virile emotions she evoked in him, that, too, was useless. he knew it, yet curious to try, intent on developing communication through those exquisite and impalpable lines that threaded the mystery from him to her—from her to him.
and then, when the mystery all about them was aquiver, and her vague eyes met his through the magic, acquiescent under a sorcery for which she had no name—then, when all things occult breathed silence—then he had said too much!
it was perhaps as well that he had said it then as later—as well perhaps that, losing self-control, defeat had moved his tongue to boast, had fixed the empty eye and stamped the smile he wore with a confidence dead in him for ever.
he had said that he would come back. he knew that he would not.
it was the pitiful defiance of a boaster hopelessly hurt.
he no longer desired to see her again. never again would he risk enduring what she had evoked in him, whatever it was of good or of evil, of the spiritual or the impure—he did not know he was aware only of what his eyes had beheld and his heart had begun to desire.
on his way back from the office that evening he met camilla lent and her uncle, the captain, and would have passed with an amiable salute, but the girl evinced a decided desire to speak. so he turned and joined them.
"how do you do, camilla? how are you, captain lent? this re-conversion of the nation's ploughshares and pruning hooks is a noisy affair, isn't it?"
"april 18th, 1861!" replied the captain quickly. "what you hear, sir, is the attrition consequent upon the grinding together of certain millstones belonging to the gods."
"i have no doubt of it, captain lent; they'll probably make meal of us all. are you offering your services, sir."
camilla said quickly, and with gayest confidence: "uncle has been looking about casually. there are so many regiments forming, so many recruiting stations that we—we haven't decided—have we, uncle?" and she gave berkley a wistful, harrowing glance that enlightened him.
he said gravely: "i suppose the average age of these volunteers will be about eighteen. and if the militia go, too, it will be comforting for a defenceless city to know she has men of your experience to count on, captain lent."
"i am going to the front," observed the captain.
"there may be much to be done in new york, sir."
"then let the police do it," said captain lent calmly. "the union must and shall be preserved. if any man attempts to haul down the american flag, shoot him upon the spot. et cetera, sir, et cetera."
"certainly. but it's a question of niggers, too, i believe."
"no, sir. it is not a question of niggers. it is a question of who's at the wheel, union or state. i myself never had any doubts any more than i ever doubted the unitarian faith! so it is no question for me, sir. what bothers me is to pick out the regiment most likely to be sent first."
"we've walked our legs off," said camilla, aside, "and we've been in all kinds of frightful places where men are drilling and smoking and swearing and yelling; and i was dreadfully afraid a gun would go off or somebody would be impudent to uncle. the dear old thing," she whispered, "he is perfectly sure they want him and that he has only to choose a regiment and offer his sword. oh, dear! i'm beginning to be terribly unhappy—i'm afraid they won't let him go and i'm deadly afraid they might! and i'm sure that jim means to go. oh, dear! have you seen ailsa paige lately?"
"no. . . . i hope she is quite well."
"you are not very enthusiastic."
"i have every reason to be. she is a very winsome girl."
"she's a dear. . . . she has spoken of you several times."
"that is most amiable of her, and of you to say so."
"oh, very," laughed camilla, tossing her pretty head, "but it evidently does not interest you very much. in fact—" she glanced sidewise—"it is understood that no woman ever interests you for more than forty-eight consecutive hours."
"pure slander, camilla. you do."
"oh—not in the way i mean."
"well, but you don't expect me to be interested in mrs. paige—in the way you mean do you?"
"why not?" she asked mischievously.
"because, to begin properly, mrs. paige is not likely ever to become interested in me."
"i am heartily glad of it," retorted camilla. "you'd forget her in a week,"
"that's more than forty-eight hours," he said, laughing. "you're flattering me now."
"anyway," said camilla, "i don't see why everybody that knows her isn't mad about ailsa paige. she has such high principles, such ideals, such wonderful aspirations—" she clasped her hands sentimentally: "at times, phil, she seems too ethereal, scarcely of earth—and yet i breakfasted with her and she ate twice as much as i did. how does she keep that glorious figure!"
plumpness was the bane and terror of camilla's life. her smooth, suave white skin was glossy and tight; distracting curves, entrancing contours characterised her now; but her full red lips fairly trembled as she gazed at her parents' portraits in her bedroom, for they had both been of a florid texture and full habit; and she had now long refused sugar and the comforts of sweetmeats dear to the palate of her age and sex. and mostly was this self-denial practised for the sake of a young and unobservant friend, one stephen craig, who had so far evinced no unusual inclination for her, or for anything except cigars and masculine society of his own age and condition.
she managed to get philip berkley to talk about stephen, which ingenuity soothed her. but philip was becoming bored, and he presently escaped to retrace his steps up broadway, up fifth avenue, and then west to the exceedingly modest lodgings whither fate and misfortune had wafted him.
on the way he passed colonel arran's big double house with a sullen and sidelong scowl, and continued onward with a shrug. but he smiled no more to himself.
burgess was in the room, cross-legged on the floor, ironing out his master's best coat.
"what the devil are you about," said philip ungraciously. "get up.
i need what floor i've got to stand on."
burgess obediently laid the board and the coat on a trunk and continued ironing; and philip scowled at him askance.
"why don't you enlist?" he said. "every car-driver, stage-driver, hackman, and racing-tout can become major-generals if they yell loud enough."
burgess continued ironing, then stole a glance at his master.
"are you thinking of enlisting, sir?"
"no; i can't pass the examination for lung power. by the way," he added, laughing, "i overlooked the impudence of your question, too. but now is your time, burgess. if i wanted you i'd have to put up with your insolence, i suppose."
"but you don't want me, sir."
"which restrains you," said philip, laughing. "oh, go on, my friend. don't say 'sir' to me; it's a badge of servitude pasted onto the vernacular. say 'hi!' if you like."
"sir?"
"hell! i say don't behave like a servant to me."
"i am a servant, sir."
"you're not mine."
"yes, sir, i am. will you wear this coat this evening, sir?"
"god knows," said the young fellow, sitting down and gazing about at the melancholy poverty of the place. . . . "is there any of that corn whisky?"
"no, sir."
"damn it, you said there was this morning!"
"no, sir, i didn't."
the man lied placidly; the master looked at him, then laughed.
"poor old burgess," he said aloud as though to himself; "there wasn't a skinful in that bottle. well, i can't get drunk, i can't lie here and count from six to midnight and keep my sanity, i can't smoke—you rascal, where's my cigar? and i certainly can't go out anywhere because i haven't any money."
"you might take the air on the avenue, sir. your clothes are in order."
"poor burgess! that was your amusement, wasn't it?—to see me go out discreetly perfumed, in fine linen and purple, brave as the best of them in club and hall, in ballroom and supper room, and in every lesser hell from crystal palace cinders to canal.
"poor burgess! even the seventy-five pretty waitresses at the gaities would turn up their seventy-five retrousse noses at a man with pockets as empty as mine."
"your clothes are fashionable. so is your figger, sir."
"that settles it?" protested the young fellow, weak with laughter. "burgess, don't go! don't ever go! i do need you. oh i do want you, burgess. because there never will be anybody exactly like you, and i've only one life in which to observe you, study you, and mentally digest you. you won't go, will you?"
"no sir," said burgess with dignity.
